The Malcontenta (31 page)

‘Yes. But it’s Sunday today. Maybe tomorrow will be different.’

‘If we’re doing this again, I’m going to bring a cushion. These metal chairs are all right for half an hour - no more.’

Brock nodded. ‘They design them that way on purpose.’

By the following mid-morning they had finished the previous day’s
Sunday Times
which Kathy had found on sale at a kiosk nearby, and were beginning to have doubts. Not a single person or vehicle had passed through the stone archway into the palazzo. And then, suddenly, she was there, stepping out into the sun.

She looked elegant and poised - a simple skirt and silk blouse, cashmere jumper loose over her shoulders, to which her auburn hair just reached. She paused and felt for the dark glasses resting on the crown of her head and brought them down on to her aristocratic nose.

‘I knew I should have brought more clothes,’ Kathy muttered.

‘Keep on her tail while I settle up with Gregorio,’ Brock said, and disappeared into the café.

A couple of minutes later he was hurrying along in the direction he had seen them take. At last he spotted Kathy standing at a shop window, staring at the clothes inside.

‘They’re lovely,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t afford a single thing.’

‘Where is she?’ he puffed.

‘Other side of the street, in the hairdresser’s.’

‘Oh no, she could be hours.’

They found another café and resumed their watch, this time insisting on paying as soon as they were served. Towards one o’clock Gabriele reappeared, her hair not noticeably shorter, and they set off again, following her into the great Piazza dei Signori, through the colonnades of Palladio’s Basilica and into a small piazza on the other side. Here, outside the Ristorante del Capitanio, she found an empty table with a white linen tablecloth, inside an area enclosed by neatly clipped, boxed hedges. It was the last free table.

‘What now?’ Kathy joined Brock at a postcard stand beneath the colonnade.

‘Follow me,’ he said, and set off towards the restaurant.

At the door the proprietor vaguely indicated that he might be willing to attend to them in due course. Brock began to speak, then paused.
‘Momento;
he said, and approached Gabriele’s table. With a little bow he said,
‘Scusi …
excuse me. It isn’t Mrs Beamish-Newell, is it? Gabriele Beamish-Newell?’

She looked up, surprised at first, then doubtful.

‘Brock,’ he beamed, ‘David Brock. You remember? I was one of your patients, years ago, at Stanhope! Must have been ‘80 or’81.’

She removed her sunglasses slowly and looked at him coolly. Her eyebrows were fixed in that half-way position when you’re not sure but don’t necessarily want to give offence-yet.

He laughed. ‘Of course, I didn’t have the beard then.’

‘Ah.’ Her face lightened a little, but not much.

‘You look wonderful, if you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Beamish-Newell. What an amazing surprise to see you like this! But then this is your part of the world, isn’t it? I’ve often thought of you, you know, and what a wonderful job you did for us all at Stanhope. I was thinking that only last week in fact, when I was there, and considering how much things had changed since your day.’ He shook his head a little sadly.

‘You were there last week?’ Some genuine interest registered.

‘Indeed. I go back from time to time. But …’ He frowned. ‘Oh dear. Have you been back at all recently?’

She shook her head slightly, her immaculately shaped hair brushing across the collar of her blouse. ‘No. There have been many changes?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes. And especially in the past year, since … well.’ He shrugged and smiled vaguely.

‘Since what?’

‘Oh, maybe I shouldn’t comment.’ Then, apparently changing the subject, ‘You know, I could say that you’re responsible for my being here. I became quite interested in the architecture of Stanhope, and through that in the work of Palladio. That’s the reason my niece’ - he indicated Kathy still standing at the doorway of the restaurant - ‘and I are here. To see it in the flesh.’

‘Your niece?’ Gabriele looked politely in the direction of his hand.

‘Yes. I’ll introduce you. Do you mind?’

He called Kathy over. ‘Isn’t that a marvellous coincidence, us looking for a restaurant for lunch, and who should I spot but Mrs Beamish-Newell, whom I’ve spoken of many times. Do you remember, Kathy?’

‘Of course.’ They shook hands.

‘I use my family name now - Montanari, Gabriele Montanari. Perhaps -’ she looked undecided ‘- perhaps you would care to join me?’

‘Are you sure? How marvellous! We’d love that. Just for a bit. We don’t want to be in the way.’

‘Not at all. My life is very boring these days. It will be interesting to hear of Stanhope. I am expecting a friend, but …’ She shrugged.

‘Well, you just let us know when you want us to go, Gabriele. May I call you that?’

She tilted her head gracefully. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recall your -’

‘David. And this is Kathy.’

‘Your niece, yes. How nice.’

She looked carefully at Kathy, who tried not to show her surprise.

‘So, what is the latest gossip from Stanhope?’

‘It isn’t the same, Gabriele. I always believed it was you who brought the humanity to the place. These things are intangible, I know, but so important. And when you left, I was proved right. It seemed to have less … soul. More like a business. But perhaps I shouldn’t speak out of turn about your former husband.’

‘Oh, speak out of turn as much as you like, David. And his wife, what do you make of her?’

‘Mmm.’ Brock appeared to struggle to find an appropriate word. ‘What would one say? Efficient?’

‘Yes, one might say that.’

‘A trifle … cold?’

‘Efficient and cold. Yes. A bitch, in other words.’

Brock gave a little splutter and looked down, nodding his head vigorously.

‘You are smiling, Kathy. Have you met her?’

‘Yes, I have. I thought she was a bitch, too.’

‘Good, we are getting somewhere. Now, I see my friend coming. Before she arrives, tell me what happened a year ago.’

‘Oh well, there were some new staff changes. One in particular. Quite a disruptive influence, one would have to say. Charming, but …’ Brock raised his eyebrows suggestively.

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, perhaps you would rather we left you to have lunch with your friend in peace, Gabriele. In any case, I don’t really like to speak ill of the dead.’

Her face drained of colour and she froze in her seat. At that moment a dark-haired woman in an expensive but overworked costume with gold accessories arrived at the table.

‘Gabriele,
cara!’

‘Ciao,
Violetta.’ Gabriele half rose, still looking shocked, brushed checks with her friend and murmured introductions.

‘You are most hospitable, signora,’ Brock said, ‘but we don’t want to intrude. We should leave you in peace.’

‘Please sit down, David. I insist.’

‘Well, in that case
I
insist on buying us a bottle of champagne to celebrate our fortunate meeting. Would that be in order?’

‘As you wish.’ She sat back and explained in a low stream of Italian to Violetta, who evidently spoke no English.

Violetta did enjoy champagne, however, and by the time they opened the third bottle, and the waiter had still not appeared with any food, her enjoyment of the company wasn’t in the least inhibited by the fact that Kathy spoke no Italian and Brock’s stock of phrases was pretty well exhausted. Gabriele maintained her poise, rather distant, joining in only when her friend demanded a translation of something. Kathy watched Gabriele out of the corner of her eye. She was smoking American cigarettes and building a small pile of white stubs smeared with her brown lipstick in the ashtray in front of her. Only her fingers were restless, the long nails perfectly manicured and coloured to match her lipstick.

At one point, while Brock and Violetta were deep in confused conversation, she turned suddenly to Kathy as if she knew she was being studied and said, ‘I don’t remember your uncle at all, you know.’

‘He’s usually a very quiet man,’ Kathy replied. ‘Self-effacing.’

‘Have you ever been to Stanhope?’ Gabriele asked. ‘Yes, I was there last October.’

‘Do you know what he was talking about just now? A death?’

Kathy wasn’t sure how Brock wanted to play it. ‘It was very strange,’ she replied. ‘Shocking.’

Gabriele fixed her with her dark eyes, letting Kathy see that she was used to having her way. ‘He said a staff member. Who was it?’

‘His name was Alex Petrou.’

Gabriele continued staring at Kathy.

‘I’m sorry,’ Kathy said sympathetically. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘Know him? Why do you say that?’

‘I could tell from your reaction it was a shock. I’m sorry.’ Gabriele shook her head, momentarily uncertain. ‘How did he die?’ she said quietly. ‘He was hanged.’

The gleaming brown finger-nails no longer moved.

The waiter’s arrival broke the silence which had suddenly descended on their table. ‘Food at last,’ said Brock.

Violetta ate energetically, apparently now concerned about the time, and finished her
saltimbocca
while Gabriele was still toying with hers. They exchanged words, Violetta urging, Gabriele irritated. Finally Gabriele pushed her plate away and said to Brock, ‘I am sorry, I must go. I will speak to the waiter.’

‘I’ll take care of it.’ Brock looked carefully at her.

‘Will you remain in Vicenza long?’ She was staring across the square, apparently more interested in the teenage boys on their scooters.

‘Probably not. We had thought of driving out to see the Malcontenta tomorrow. I don’t suppose you’d be able to join us? Perhaps in the afternoon?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said coolly, ‘I am occupied.’

She got to her feet, ignoring Violetta’s fulsome goodbyes to Brock and Kathy. Then she lifted her cigarette packet from the table and said, ‘In the morning I am free.’

As they watched the two of them walk away, Kathy said, ‘You seem to be quite good at picking up strange women, Uncle.’

Gabriele appeared precisely ten minutes later than the time arranged. She smiled as she watched Brock try to explain to a pair of uniformed policemen why he was parked illegally within the old city walls. Then she stepped forward and came to his assistance, dismissing the officers with a couple of phrases. ‘Is this your little car? How sweet,’ she remarked to Brock. She settled herself elegantly in the passenger seat in front of Kathy and they set off.

‘It is a beautiful day for a drive,’ she said. And it was a beautiful day, the spring sun starting to dissolve the silver morning mist over the fields as they sped eastward along the autostrada towards Padua and then Venice. Gabriele waved for him to take the Dolo exit, and he slowed and followed her instructions as she directed him along quiet roads across the flat countryside. The mist became heavier and more persistent as they neared the coast, and several times Brock was forced to slow to a crawl as they came upon a particularly thick patch.

Finally they turned on to a gravel drive and, with dramatic effect, the stone bulk of the Malcontenta loomed before them. Whether it was the quality of the light or the rugged character of the stonework and pantiles, it seemed more archaic, more powerful, than its English offspring at Stanhope, which by comparison appeared fastidious and neat, a polite copy without the brooding presence of the original. Brock stopped the car and they approached on foot. The place was quite silent and deserted; no sound of a dog, voice or motor disturbed the morning quiet. They walked all round the house, seeing no sign of anyone, and returned to the car, where Brock opened the boot and took out a bag and a rug.

‘Let’s sit over by the willows and have our picnic,’ he said.

‘A picnic?’ Gabriele smiled.

‘I try to think of everything,’ he replied.

‘Yes, I rather think you do. Are you a tax inspector, Mr Brock? Or a policeman?’

Brock looked at her in surprise.

‘I am sure you were never a patient at Stanhope when I was there. I have an excellent memory.’

‘Ah.’

‘I much prefer people to be honest with me.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Brock said.

They walked over to the willows and found a stone bench, and the two women sat down. While Brock was unpacking his bag on the rug and offering them rolls and coffee from a vacuum flask, he explained to Gabriele something of who they were and what they were doing there. He outlined the circumstances of Petrou’s death but didn’t mention Rose’s murder.

After a lengthy silence Gabriele finally said, ‘This coffee tastes strange.’

‘I added some fortification,’ Brock admitted. ‘Brandy.’

‘My former husband would not approve of your drinking habits.’

He smiled. ‘Nor of your cigarettes.’

She shrugged. ‘I still have dreams about him. It took him only, oh, I don’t know, a few months, to control me. I was young, I was in love with him. I let him take control. It took me many years to recover myself again. In my dreams he still comes to claim my obedience. Every cigarette I smoke is a message to him.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘A smoke signal of disobedience.’ She opened her packet and lit up.

Kathy, sitting by her side, asked quietly, ‘How did you break away?’

‘I didn’t - he did. He had an affair with one of the nurses. I knew about it but did nothing. I thought, how
banal,
the doctor and his nurse, it would blow over. But she was greedy to have him and she became pregnant. We had no children -it was the one thing I hadn’t been able to give him. And when he discovered that she was having his baby, he decided that was the most important thing for him.’

She sucked in a deep lungful of smoke before going on. ‘He was very ruthless. That is the way he is when he has made up Ins mind about something. He made things impossible for me until I agreed to return to Italy and let him get a divorce. My father was very angry but he could do nothing - Stephen had found a new business partner to give him money to keep the clinic going. The irony was that they lost the baby at birth.’

She glanced over her shoulder at the Malcontenta and frowned. ‘I sometimes felt that it was the house that made us barren for him. She has never given him a child, I think.’